


Three months [I'm still breathing]

by zanzibar



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:09:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanzibar/pseuds/zanzibar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So instead of holding out Taylor mostly wants to drag Jordan around by his skinny black tie and crowd him against walls.</p><p>In which Taylor exercises self-restraint and thinks about the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three months [I'm still breathing]

**Author's Note:**

> Look! More fic named after Kelly Clarkson songs. I'm probably going to have to write an entire series based on my love of all things Queen Kelly. Title from Sober, a song that alone in my car I will SERIOUSLY wail on.
> 
> This fic was mostly written and takes place a million months ago when OKC played Abbotsford and is entirely inspired by [this picture](http://t.co/92G6BB3N). It's finished today thanks to a completely random dream I had about my eternal quest to find a Jordan Eberle tshirt [which as it stands right now is a total failure].

The first night in Abby they get smoked. Seriously, no bones about it smoked. And it sucks, because there’s about a million people here. People they know, their families and fans and people who legit got on planes and trains and buses to get to this game, to see some hockey, only to see them lose a million to nothing. Taylor has one tragic shot, Jordan has 4 and they head to the hotel after night 1 with nothing to show for a couple thousand mile road trip.

The next day Jordan’s parents pretty much kidnap them after pre-game skate and take them out for Chinese food and give them each a stack of Christmas presents and they spend almost 2 hours just hanging out on the couches in the lounge talking about their lives. It actually feels the most like home anything has lately, in a hotel in Abbotsford, on a road trip that’s about a million miles away from their home ice [but closer than they’ve been in months to their actual home ice].

The next night is better. Taylor scores a goal and Jordan has an assist and Schultzy proves yet again that even in overtime all he really has to do is throw the puck in the general direction of the net and it will go in.

The problem with winning, and Taylor knows that it's ironic that someone who plays for a not a great NHL team, and honestly, lately not an especially amazing AHL team, has a problem with winning. But what the fuck ever, it's not like he's ever going to tell anyone his problem with winning, he's just going to think it, to himself, alone. And until someone comes along and reads his mind, he'll be the only one who knows.

Anyway, the problem with winning, especially winning with Ebs, is that it makes Taylor super horny.

When he's thinking about it, secretly, because no one needs to know where his brain goes, he thinks it probably has to do with the fact that the first time he and Jordan hooked up was fueled by the adrenaline of Taylor's first hat trick. Now he associates winning with orgasms, and orgasms always with Jordan.

But seriously, and he wants to be clear here, he doesn't have a problem with orgasms, and he certainly doesn't have a problem with Ebs fueled orgasms. There's probably a place in his brain somewhere that is ready to admit that he doesn't really think about orgasms from anyone else, doesn't want orgasms with anyone else, now that he has Jordan.

The problem is this. Winning makes him horny. And scoring goals exacerbates this problem. And all of that leads to having a big ol’, impossible to ignore, boner on the ice and in the room after a game. Which is negative fun.

Taylor suffers in most uncomfortable silence while they handshake the Heat, salute the away crowd and file into the locker room. He manages to avoid yelling “I love Canada,” and collapsing to kiss the faceoff circle at center ice which is also a victory, because seriously no one needs to know the depths of how much he misses the great white North.

Once they’re back in the room he sits half stripped and slouched on the bench while Ebs responsibly pulls off his gear and heads for the showers and then comes back to wander around and chirp a bunch of guys and flash his familiar gap-toothed smile. All of this while wrapped in nothing more than a white towel, the color stark against his weirdly winter tan skin.

Because he’s a little zoned out on all that stretch of wiry muscles over smooth skin and maybe dedicating some serious fantasy-time to considering exactly what he’s going to do with all of it later, he’s not even close to ready when the 10 minutes till bus time warning comes. He checks back in with a start and has to yank the rest of his gear off and stuff it haphazardly in his bag and then take what is probably in the top 10 fastest showers in his life [lukewarm, because at this point he needs the distraction but he’s not a total sadist.] There’s like 2 guys left in the locker room by the time he’s pulling clothes on and having a quick pep talk with his dick about how it just needs to hold out through dinner and a quick bus ride and rewards will be in its future.

And then he’s trying to string together cohesive sentences for the people who are still hanging outside the locker rooms and there’s Jordan looking all fine in a dove gray suit posing for photos with kids, dammit, tiny hockey jersey-clad kids. Taylor's dick basically stages a mutiny. He poses for photos and signs autographs and silently curses thin dress pants and getting dressed quickly and the fact that because he’s a total scatterbrain all his boxer briefs are chilling in his duffle under the bus.

So instead of holding out he mostly just wants to drag Ebby around by his skinny black tie and crowd him against walls.

And he's really not sorry.

* * *

Once they’re finally ensconced in their hotel room in Seattle [halfway back to OKC, his brain unhelpfully supplies] there’s a routine. The deadbolt is slammed home and they’ve dumped their bags against the wall and Jordan’s ripped the sticky comforters off both beds and piled them in the closet [even though they’ll only use one] and Taylor’s turned the fan on low and when he turns around Jordan’s laying face down on clean white sheets with his stupid feet still hanging over the edge of the bed.

He doesn’t pounce on Jordan as soon as the heavy door on their hotel room slams and Taylor’s counting that as a serious victory [after dinner and hours and buses and hours and hours and border crossings and customs and seriously, the adrenaline is long gone at this point. Taylor is completely dead freaking tired right now, but he will have his victory sex dammit].

Taylor pulls his jacket off, tosses it over the back of the desk chair and crosses the room in three quick strides. Standing at the foot of the bed he walks on his knees up to press his chest against Ebs’ back. “I hope you aren’t asleep,” he nips at Jordan’ neck just under the pressed collar of his white shirt.

He doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking about being bigger than Jordan. Officially there’s only 3 inches between them and between 10 and 15 pounds [depending on the ice time to KD ratio]. They’re just built differently. Jordan’s more compact, small and fast, sneaky on the ice and quick through the corners. Taylor’s lanky, all long arms and long legs, built for speed and maybe, sometimes, if he works at it, grace.

But sometimes their size difference seems like so much more. When Ebs is tucked against him in bed at night or curled in a ball, asleep in a bus seat or straddling his lap grinding shamelessly on the couch.

It seems like more now, with his chin resting on Jordan’s shoulder to murmur in his ear and nip at his neck and Jordan’s moans low and long while Taylor's hands slide down his arms, knees bracketing Jordan’s slim hips holding him tight against the mattress.

The hot press of muscle through thin dress pants is almost enough alone to get him off and he thinks seriously about just rubbing against Jordan and then collapsing into a heap of exhausted hockey player.

But he has to wear these pants again tomorrow, and if he shows up as the only guy in jeans for the plane ride home Todd will probably bag skate him until his legs fall off and then there will be a line of guys to chirp him about what exactly the problem with his pants was.

He’ll put up with a fair amount of embarrassment, but he has to draw the line somewhere.

He heaves himself off the bed to dig through Jordan’s bag and find the condoms and lube and turns around to find Jordan in exactly the same position he’d been in moments ago. But with all his clothes kicked onto the floor beside the bed.

Taylor has hockey player fingers, they’re callused and cracked and the knuckles are swollen and even if he used a whole bottle of lotion a day they’d still be dry from hours in temperature controlled hockey rinks and locker rooms and too many showers every day.

He runs kisses the length of Jordan’s spine and tries to be gentle when he slides his fingers in, but he’s a little too eager, a little too freaking worked up about finally having the opportunity to get his hands on him. Thankfully he’s an expert on turning Jordan Eberle on. He knows Jordan’s body almost as well as his own, he knows he can slide his lips across the back of Jordan’s neck and sink his teeth into the meat of his shoulder and that will always elicit moans, that will always result in Jordan pushing back against his two fingers. He can slide a hand around and thumb at one of Jordan’s nipples and he’ll always ask for more.

He isn’t tired anymore by the time he pulls his fingers slowly out and slides into Jordan. Jordan’s hot and tight and so much like home that Taylor seriously doesn’t even care that they’re in Seattle in a hotel room right now. He doesn’t care that he’s paying $5k a month to play hockey in a state that can’t decide if it likes hockey or basketball. He doesn’t care that it’s almost as many miles from Kingston to Edmonton as it is from OKC to Edmonton like it’s the intersection of some weird Bermunda-Hockey-Taylor’s-Life Triangle.

All he cares about is Jordan, arms braced against the mattress, high pitched little grunting noises slipping from his lips unconsciously and pushing back into Taylor like he didn’t have 3 shots, an assist and a shitload of ice time less than 4 hours ago.  Right now Taylor's shoulder doesn’t ache the way it will later, the bruises and the scrapes are all so secondary to the long tan expanse of skin right in front of his face.

[It should be noted that he misses the horrifying winter cold of Edmonton like a phantom limb right now, but winter in mostly sunny OKC means they spend way, way, WAY more time outside and Jordan’s skin turns an amazing shade of brown at the thought of sun. And for that he is thankful.]

Jordan flips onto his back and Taylor manages not to slide back in without losing much of his rhythm and the tips of Jordan’s fingers are tracing the cut of his triceps and he’s muttering low and steady and Taylor has to close his eyes just for a minute because Jordan’s hair is messy and curling on his forehead and the flush of arousal is spreading down his chest and boys aren’t supposed to be beautiful. But right now, Jordan is.

He leans back and focuses on long, slow, smooth thrusts while he rubs a hand over the head of Jordan’s dick. He slides it carefully back and forth to spread the leftover lube around, drawing a deep breath when the desire for a more frantic pace rears its head.

Jordan reaches down and overlaps his fingers between Taylor’s, their hands fitting together seamlessly, Taylor never forgets to notice how Jordan’s fingers slide against his knuckles, fitting in the weak spots and making everything about him a little stronger.

It’s like the ice, Taylor’s speed opens the door for Jordan and Jordan’s pinpoint passes open the doors for Taylor. They’re good on their own, but together they’re better.  His hips buck harder at the thought and Jordan braces one hand against the headboard eyes clear and 

Jordan’s fingers tighten, his eyes rolling back just a little bit as he tumbles over the edge, back arching off the bed while Taylor reaches down to dig his fingers into the cut of his hips. Two more thrusts and Taylor’s falling too, while Jordan still shakes around him.

They clean up slowly, carefully, and totally skip brushing their teeth, because they’re grown ups now. Or something.

“When we’re finally back in Edmonton we should totally have sex in your truck,” when they’ve crawled back in bed Taylor leans back against the headboard and stretches his toes toward the foot of the bed.

Somewhere to his left Ebs groans into the pillow he’s buried his head in.

“Seriously,” Taylor feels awesome right now, all naked and loose and relaxed. They won the game and they were in Canada and there was snow and hockey. “We’ll go up some country road and park and you can ride me in the drivers seat.”

Jordan reaches out blindly to pinch his bare hip and Taylor yelps.

“It’ll be totally hot,” Taylor slides down to rest his head on the pillow while Jordan groans again. But this time he turns his hand over on the cool sheets between them and lets Taylor lace their fingers together.

* * *

In the morning they sleep through the alarm, and the waffle maker is broken at the hotel and there’s only apple juice and wheat toast and grape jam and the security line at the airport is so long that Taylor kind of wants to cry.

But in the lounge while they’re waiting for their flight to Dallas Jordan reaches across the armrest and laces their fingers together. Taylor looks down for a minute at Jordan’s fingers lacing with his, covering the gaps and leans his head against the wall with a smile.

Taylor knows that someday Jordan will wear the C. He knows it with the same certainty that he believes in what they’re building in Edmonton. Jordan’s been preparing for it since he was something like fourteen. Taylor knows that Jordan will bear that burden, just as he knows that he’ll stand just behind and wear the A.

And as it turns out that’s what he wants.


End file.
